The Last Moment
by Twentee Nyne
Summary: Here's another one-shot that is farther in the past of Ocarina of Time. I've always thought that Link's parents never got as much attention as they deserved disregarding what little we know about them.


The Great War had been waging for nearly two years. It wasn't the most heartening of topics to discuss with a company, but despite all the respectable attempts, nobody could be wary of the biggest event to occur since the departure of the Goddesses. It entwined itself amidst every word spoken, making it impossible to not take notice of the inkling of conversation dangling from every statement within hearing range. It plagued everybody's minds, whether it be concern for those fighting, or simply fear for the future of the beloved land of Hyrule. Regardless, war had snuck up upon the peaceable citizens of Hyrule, and it burst its way into their lives with a fist of fury and hatred. For two years -- two agonizing, long years -- mothers worried about their sons, wives for their husbands, and friends for their friends. The bitter sweet victory lingered about the blood-scathed atmosphere, almost taunting the warriors at battle and brave onlookers at home, taunting with an aroma of tantalizing lust. Hyrule merely was not the proper setting for outward and direct battle. The lands had been too serene, too pure, to allow such a horrendous and poisonous thing to cast its burden upon the innocent and guilty alike. And yet, the treacherous effects had leaked openly upon the countryside, oozing its way into alleyways, sand dunes, and lake banks with a threatening gaze of harmful solutions. No one had foreshadowed a fate as heart-wrenching as their current predicament, and now they all endured the consequences.

The homely village of Kakariko was not exempt from the physical and emotional tremors of war. Once bright and sun-washed windows had long been closed and boarded for mere safety, and such a caution fell short of instilling the sensation of ultimate security. No where vibrated with that sort of comforting blanket anymore. The fear of lying down for a night's sleep even held its own sections of possibilities that only emphasized the anticipation for the war's end and the country's peace. Once a naturally good-weathered vicinity, the town now mirrored its own residents with dark plumes of clouds hovering ominously above the grass and walks, occasionally zapping the sky with forks of lightning as a reminder that perhaps the light would shine once again on these cursed house fronts. The townsfolk themselves had taken the most toil from the effects, and it was made evident by their dramatic alteration in personality and everyday activities. It was rare enough to engage in good-natured conversation with your own home members, let alone glimpse a brave soul marching about the as-good-as-abandoned streets. Each resident had his or her own loved one to worry about, and not a speck of concern went wasted. It had been rumored among many other things that the tension and unwritten rule of house arrest were beginning to drive at the minds of the less-will powered. Insanity tickled the brink of the small-town society, its rotten stench fluttering into the village limits on the powerful gale of war.

One woman had gained sympathy from the more genial of Kakariko residents. Her story was plain in terms of war-burdened families, although extreme in generalities, but it had still managed to etch its way into the hearts of the well-reputationed locals (mostly older women and the gentle, fatherly, society-oriented type of men.) She had never owned any sort of lavish and extraordinary residence. She was of the average group in just about every aspect of her life, except for her desire to love that average life, as well as the people linked to it. Specifically, she loved her husband, and their now three-year-old son. It was no mistake; a person could simply look at her and see that she adored anything and everything about that little boy inevitably following in her every step, hooked to her skirts or apron strings. If it wasn't her, it was the father of the little boy that careened his boy by anybody that would look. He had insisted that his boy was destined for something more than just raising Cuccos or selling potions and arrows. Those joyous encounters with the little family had abruptly been called to halt with the arrival of their demise; a draft. Unable to deny his loyalty to his country, the husband and father had fled his home life to serve with his fellow Hylians in the ranks for the Great War. He left his wife and his son, vowing to return, much like the valiant heroes in children's stories. It was usually at this point in the story that the small audience would immediately gain skepticism as to just why this one female villager deserved more sympathy than anybody else. There was truth in that the woman's tale fell among many others that contained woes and a glum attitude. Still, other people could not resist the extra wrench on their heart strings, and their precious prayers would be sent off to the Goddesses lined with hope for the average woman and her endeared little boy.

She stood in usual surroundings, but that same proximity had recently manifested itself into some sort of twisted and ugly setting. It just did not seem like her home any longer. A vast vacuum of empty space crawled about within her, of which projected itself into the very nooks and rooms of her own home. It looked the same -- the kettle, the wooden table, the bed and crib, the bookcase, granted there was a lack of lighting -- but it didn't _feel_ the same. She had heard about her sympathizers, but it did not affect her as deeply as it should have. Surely she was flattered, but flattery would not bring an end to the battling, nor would it bring her husband back home to her and her son. The little boy was not old enough to realize just what was going on outside their boarded up home, and no matter how hard she tried, she could not rightfully explain to him where his father was. His tears only provoked her to clutch her son closer, offering all the comfort that she could bare, and more. She hated the war, and hated that her son, her three-year-old son, had to endure something that he never deserved.

Her eyes flitted at the little boy in the corner. He had been complaining of the stuffiness on their one-roomed home. She had taken note of the blatant stir-craziness that was settling its way into both of their bodies, his especially. He wanted to go outside, to play, and just breathe some fresh air. For all of her worth, she just couldn't allow for him to leave the house. It was risky enough without being outside with a front-row seat to the chaos. Still, a hefty portion of her tried to persuade the rest that somehow it would be possible to let the unfortunate child breathe again. Heaving a sigh, she turned to glance at the wooden door to her side. Right on the other side of that door was the blackened freedom that she yearned for her son to experience. Through that thin collection of wood was fresh air, open space, and a change of scenery for all of their tired eyes. And yet, on the opposite side of that door, was fighting, cursing, and killing. There was unnecessary bloodshed staining every inch of Hyrule, and inking its path of horrid history into the scrolls and memories for the future to cower before.

She forced her eyes to tear from that door. She wouldn't; she _couldn't._ She ran her fingers over her head, pumping relief into her panging head whilst she moved toward her son. His small hands beaded with sweat mostly from anxiety and the lack of circulation in the room. His expression alone was enough to announce that his little frame and mind were enduring all that they could. She didn't know how much longer he would last before who knows what would happen to his psyche. She glimpsed down into his eyes. They were average, like her own, except that his were a striking aquamarine-tinged blue. They had once been overflowing with the happiness and brightness that a typical child attained. Perhaps even more so, considering that he always seemed to either be energetic or just plain satisfied with whatever was going on in his once-blissful life. They had dulled considerably ever since his father left and the windows were boarded up. He could no longer play with his favorite mate; no longer clamber up into the window sill to just sit and look at the smiling people of Kakariko. It was painful for him, and even more so for his mother.

"Mama, I wan'a go ou'side."

"I know, sweetie. I know."

"Can I go ou'side?"

"No, sweetie. We can't go anywhere right now. We just have to wait."

"Mama . . ."

His plea was like a cry for help; for his mother's help. She swathed his small frame in her embrace, yearning, pleading to the Goddesses for something, anything, to happen that would ease the pain for everyone. She could hear the muffled sobs emitting from her son's throat. Her son, who refused to cry when he fell from the edge of the half-wall behind the Skulltula House. Her inner pleads strengthened. "Mama, where's daddy? I wan' daddy.""I'm . . . I'm sorry, sweetie. Daddy isn't here. He-he's away for awhile."

"I miss daddy, Mama."

His sobs only strengthened with each plea that she shuddered. She could only tell herself so many times that everything was going to be alright. She could only contain so much hope that this disastrous war would end within the next moment, and that her husband would come bursting through that door with his arms wide and his eyes blazing with life. Her mind shook with these images that she had long dreamed of. There was nothing beside her to reassure her that everything would fall back into place in the same way that it had been. No guiding light depicted to her the righteousness that the Goddesses bestowed upon those who deserved it. It was almost faltering in itself; the idea that the Goddesses would right any wrongs that befell innocent lands. As much as she wished to berate herself for thinking such blasphemous things, it just seemed irrelevant to hold onto that sliver of hope she tried too hard to preserve.

As if by cue, a thunder clap rattled the outside world. She could feel her son fidget in her grasp. He was not acquainted with the attributes of a storm, despite how often the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled. Lightning and thunder were all it ever was though. Rain had not dampened their village, despite the over-powered-looking clouds that clung uselessly to the skies above.

That was, until that day.

Her slanted ears could not register the noise at first. It sounded like a constant onslaught of seed pellets were cascading all down and around her home. It was frightening at first. How could she be sure exactly what it was? But, the realization claimed its rightful position, and her mind fathomed the rain. She couldn't conclude whether or not she should classify the rain as a good or bad omen, or any sort of omen at all. It meant that the battlefields were saturated, and the houses would most likely leak in particular places that had been neglected over the past two years. But, what did it mean in the entire scene?

"Mama! Mama, what's that?"

"It's okay, son, it's alright. It's just the rain."

"Rain?"

"It's like . . . well, it's like the Goddesses are crying. They're shedding their tears down onto us."

"Wha'you mean?"

His facial features contorted into an expression of confusion. She could not explain the rain to him, especially without any sort of visual to aid her. Her mind was telling her what she could do. Her heart was telling her that that's what she _should_ do. But, her common sense told her that she couldn't nor shouldn't. The danger outside was far too immense to risk. She was already risking the life of her husband. She couldn't bear to endanger her son as well.

Then again, how safe was he cooped up in the same little room for days on end?

The rain deepened and pelt the roof harder. It wasn't a downpour, she mused, but more of a hot-season's relief that would occur just when the time was right. That small bit of contemplation almost comforted her, and gave her that extra ounce of hope that maybe, just maybe, something in the world would go right soon enough. Still, regardless of what might happen, there was still a lot happening right then and there. Her son still held his perplexed look, his eyes still giving off that begging vibe that he just wanted to understand. He wanted to understand why the house was all closed up, and why he couldn't go outside, and why the Goddesses were crying, and why his father wasn't there with him. He wanted to understand, but for the small life of him, he couldn't. And she couldn't enable any sense of comprehension. He was only three-years-old, and already dealing with highly mature situations that should not have any affect whatsoever in his life. And yet still, they did. The war did, she did, and now even the weather was pulling at his desires.

"Mama . . .?"

She exhaled as she stood, hoisting her son into the air with her. Just like her son, she couldn't entirely understand what she was doing. Maybe she shouldn't understand it. If she did, she might just talk herself out of it, and for all that it was worth, she couldn't allow that to happen. Not now.

She shuffled across the floor towards the lone door, her free hand placed upon its paneling in a slight moment of hesitance. There was so much hiding behind that door, and it wasn't possible to separate enough of it in order to compare how much of it was positive and how much was negative. It was risky, and she knew it. It was all risky anymore. Everybody was taking risks with everything they did, and there was nothing that they could do about it. She couldn't banish the risks from her actions, but she could at least live a few more days with the satisfaction that she could keep her dearest loved ones happy, safe, and alive. With a hearty shove, she flung the door outward into the rainy air. A blast of stormy gale splashed across her face, and she could hear her son's wordless gasp. In an instant, the harsher winds calmed, leaving a sheet of rain that fell straight from the sky to the muddy ground. Through the veils of fog she could see the buildings that she had always known. It all looked the same over the span of two years, and yet, just like her own home, it felt different.

Her son stared wide-eyed as the droplets of rain fell onto his face and shoulders. He was involuntarily shivering against the cool temperature, but his bewildered mind was too concentrated on the rain to even notice. He stuck his hand in front of him to feel the water splash on his fingers. He withdrew his hand soon enough, content with just looking at the rain while his mother hid most of his body with her arms.

"This is rain."

She spoke as if it was the only thing that he needed at the moment. And in truth, to her, it was the only thing that she could give him at the moment. Yet, still, his face expressed confusion. His eyes were dancing around subjects that she could only hope to ever guess, and her own curiosity plunged into his delicate thoughts to try and bring some sense into his hectic years.

"What's the matter?"

"Mama, why're the God'ses crying?"

"Well . . ." she thought, "I would have to say that they're crying because they're sad. They're sad because so many of their people are sad. It's hard sometimes, and sometimes it's alright to cry, even for a Goddess."

"So . . ." he began, "If I'm happy, t'en the God'ses are happy too?"

"Something like that. Do you like the rain?"

"Yeah . . . I wan'a the God'ses t'be happy, so I be happy, an' make Mama happy too."

And he smiled.

"As long as you're happy, I'm happy. I love you, Link."

"I love you, Mama."


End file.
